First sing.

When we were newly married, my husband and I had an agreement: whenever I said I “hated” something, I owed him a dollar; whenever he interrupted me, he owed me a dollar. I hated bad grammar. I hated vinyl siding. I hated..you know…unimportant things. He still interrupts me incessantly. But I have come to rarely say that I hate anything. I’m good with that. Not with the interrupting, really, but marriage is about compromise. I mean: it’s better not to express so much negativity about trivialities.

So you will, perhaps, appreciate the intensity and genuine feeling expressed when I tell you that I hate daylight savings time. Much of that is about being an early riser. After months of the dreariness of rising in pitch black and turning on the lights as if you’d never gone to bed, we had finally been waking in the faint light of pre-dawn. It was easier, and life had a rhythm to it. Even on days off, my body clock would chime, and I would rise at the usual time. It made the mornings effortless.

But last night, we couldn’t get to sleep because it was too early, and this morning, after a restless night with odd and vivid dreams, getting up was dark, and hard, and miserable. It was jet lag, but imposed without the lovely trip to London.

I dragged myself to the kitchen for coffee, and returned to the bedroom, to sit by the window and watch the stirrings of life in the woods. The room felt overheated, so I threw open a window. What I heard made me stand up and go to the doors and open them to listen, just to be sure. Mixed with the turkeys, and the geese on the lake, and the red squirrels, was the song of the first robins. Flocks of them, not just one.

March is early for robins in Wisconsin. Maybe this warm weather is more than just a tease.

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I share your disdain of daylight savings, though it does mean I can walk my dog as the sun is setting. I saw robins near kangaroo lake last week, a thrill. And the next day heard the cranes trumpeting as they flew overhead, their cackles echoed off the ice shell that is slowly dismissing on our little shoreline. All winter I have sa vored the deep bass tones coming from the lake as the ice stretched over it, making a drum head, which the water underneath caressed and slapped, depending on her mood. Now the geese and night heron, cranes and black ducks return and turf wars have begun. Soon it will be the seasonals and then these service industry college students, and workers, then the tourists and families on short camping trips, jet skis, sail boards, zip line, segue menace, concert going, boat towing, fishing boat hogs and butterfly tagging, plein air painters each pursuing their own passion, and I will think back to the joy and peace of the deep dark winter and the simplicity of standard time.

I hope you call me next time you come to the county but fully appreciate and understand why you might not, this place is special.

You are an artist with paint and with words. I feel a bit cheated about this past winter. It was not terribly wintry.
I will call you when I come next. It looks as if May 7 is the book launch at Peninsula Bookman. I would love to see you both. Details to come!

While we are on the subject of things that don’t make sense…who’s the genius that decided to have 28 days in February? Really? We couldn’t take two days away from two 31 day months and make February 30 days? I suppose some really smart person will shame me by explaining how it all makes total sense. LOL!

On Mon, Mar 14, 2016 at 7:19 AM, North of the Tension Line wrote:

> northofthetensionline posted: “When we were newly married, my husband and > I had an agreement: whenever I said I “hated” something, I owed him a > dollar; whenever he interrupted me, he owed me a dollar. I hated bad > grammar. I hated vinyl siding. I hated..you know…unimportant things. He” >

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J.F. Riordan’s first book of personal essays is by turns deeply spiritual and gently comic, these brief meditations range from the inconveniences of modern life to the shifting nature of grief. Whether it’s an unexpected revelation from a trip to the hardware store, a casual encounter with a tow-truck driver, the changing seasons, or a conversation with a store clerk grieving for a dog, J. F. Riordan captures and magnifies the passing beauty of the ordinary and the extraordinary that lingers near the surface of daily life.

About J.F. Riordan

Called a “modern-day Jane Austen,” J.F. Riordan’s lyrical prose and rich characters are a tribute to small town life and the beauty of the ordinary.

Peopled with sharply drawn characters whose experiences are by turns serious, mystical, and ridiculous, her books bring into sharp focus the pitfalls and vicious politics that prevail in small towns everywhere.

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